


Delights

by goldandbeloved



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, game of thrones
Genre: BDSM, Biting, Blood, Blood Fetish, Curiosity, D/s, Daddy Kink, Daddy/girl, F/M, Kissing, Lust, Older Man/Younger Woman, Rubbing, Sensuality, sweets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 20:19:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6254446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldandbeloved/pseuds/goldandbeloved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tywin teaches.<br/>Good girls get treats.<br/>Reward of Curiosity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tommyginger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tommyginger/gifts).



> This story takes place in the world of _The Wolf-Girl Who Longed for The Sun_. Since it stands free it is outside of them all--or perhaps it is within them all.

Sansa drowses on the Great Lion’s lap, half drunk on the scent of rich burgundy leather from his doublet, his own scent of dragon's blood resin, ink and smoky honey. She’s dizzied with pleasure from his strong arms around her, knowing she couldn’t get away if she tried. She doesn’t want to. She likes it here in this warm, perfect circle, the feel of her cheek against the leather, far beneath it the sound of slow, patient breath, the rivers of his blood, the solid thump, thump, thump of his heart.  
Sansa wraps an arm around his chest to hold tighter, leather and velvet and warm, dry skin. She’s rewarded with a growl, being gripped so tightly for a moment that she can’t quite breathe, then released just enough so that she gasps, then sighs back into her sweetness as Tywin strokes her head, works his fingers in tiny circles over her scalp,combs her long hair out with his fingers.

In the firelight, he holds out strands of rubies. 

The Great Lion nips at Sansa’s ear, enough to make her squirm, make tiny soft noises as she rubs against him. Such a good little cub. Lively, sweet and always minds her manners. She nuzzles him and Tywin feels the tip of her pink tongue against his doublet. If he did smile, he might at that.

He’s the treat and so is she, each for the other.  
Some days, there are other things too.

Tywin approves of stimulating a little cub’s mind.

For visits, he will have things wrapped in silks, for her to unwrap, because it’s delicious to watch how she elongates each moment of her surprise, winding ribbon around her long, slender fingers, unbinding the silk slowly, achingly.

Tywin is not sentimental. He does growl, pleased to watch her eyes grow wide, watch what she does with each treasure.  
Beautiful things: a stone polished smooth, golden brown and clear as aged brandy. Sansa can cup it in her hands and gaze within its depths as Tywin breathes calmly, holds her close but his claws are always at the ready should someone try and break that circle.  
Later, when she’s lying warm in his arms, he’ll tell her that warlocks used to look at it in Qarth for visions. Tywin holds no stock with visions, but he’ll tell her of the triple walls, twining a fiery curl round his finger as he asks her how she’d break through. He’ll talk with her of it, but loves to watch Sansa furrow her brow, bite her lip as she forms her answer.

When Sansa asks how she could set the Thirteen against The Ancient Order of Spicers instead of attacking the wall, he bares his teeth and rolls her over in fierce delight, the shapes of their bodies reflected in the stone, a vision of many futures. He’ll let her lie on his chest and kiss, then recommence their discussion as the candles burn low.

Golden resins from Lys yield their powdery, intoxicating scent when Sansa rolls them between her palms, her sigh when she breathes in like that after she’s been kissed. He tells her of the Century of Blood, the Tears of Lys, silks embroidered with birds that almost seem alive. Tywin enjoys her expression when he says one day he’ll wrap her in one.  
(The Great Lion stirs to think of Sansa in milk-white embroidered silk, purrs at the delicacy of it against her moon-pale skin, her hair of flame.) He raises the palm of Sansa’s hand, breathes in the resins’ softness against the sweetness of own familiar scent.  
When Sansa visits him, he is always pleased that there is a hint of it in her hair. It befits such a beautiful gift, such a clever little cub.

Huge pointed teeth that rattle in their glass apothecary jar, lions larger than the ones who used to live in the cages beneath the Rock, but these lived free in their own caves. The teeth have holes drilled through them painstakingly so that the First Men could wear them as breastplates of courage, march to the hunt with the lion’s favor. Sansa runs one against her forearm to see the red scratch. Tywin pulls her close letting her nuzzle at his chest, gives a warning snarl as she tries to bite. He imagines her bringing down her prey, her victory cry, her red hair in the wind, her own breastplate the finest of all.

Black books of bloody history bring a flush to Sansa’s cheek, make her heart beat faster as she squirms close, but she’s a brave little lioness. Sansa will turn the page and whisper for more, her eyes wide and curious, her hand on his arm, pricking him with her sharp little claws at each war story. Tywin watches; when the books are closed she’ll coil tight around him like she’s a little serpent instead of a little red lioness.

The Great Lion, however, is the one who bites.

Today there is a wood and brass box, the brazen six-pointed stars replicas of tile shapes in the Water Gardens. Sansa’s pale fingers fly over them like she’s reading with them, studding her memory with their golden shapes. Tywin is pleased. He takes the box from her hands, presses the hidden catch and slowly opens; there’s a delicate white breath from the box like smoke or snow but’s snow’s never this warm or pale.

Good girls get treats.

Tywin removes the small two-tined ivory fork concealed in the top, eyeing carefully to make sure that not a fleck of white mars his oxblood velvet sleeve, though Sansa has a tiny plume of pale dust at her cheek. On her, it’s becoming.

He could almost care for sweets when he sees that.

In the box, there are soft triangles; lush, vibrant pink dusted with white, their scent changing air around both of them slowly melting, changing to a perfumed garden, the loveliest flower in the center, draped in scarlet, shaped in alabaster. The Great Lion spears one with the fork. Sansa doesn’t need to be told to open her mouth but takes it between her parted lips, her hot breath on Tywin’s hand. 

Tywin’s hand stays steady. He closes the box.

Sansa closes her eyes, lets the flavor wash over her tongue. Sansa’s never tasted anything like this, not the almond richness of marchpane, the firmness of candied fruits studded with veins of crystallized sugar, not the sparkling tartness of a lemon cake. It’s silky between her teeth, giving, melting on her tongue. She sighs as she savors the sweet, tastes an endless summer, an endless warm afternoon of flowers, heat, the shadows of date palms, tables sprinkled with blood-red, pink, white and golden petals. 

Sansa didn’t know that flowers could be tasted, but she does now, her pale pink tongue licking every bit from her lips. She presses them to the leather over the Great Lion’s heart, giving her thanks, feels his chest rumbling as he purrs, clutches her close. Sansa’s arms reach up around his neck, one hand caressing his cheek, learning his face though she already knows it. Tywin tastes copper, feels his blood boil, snarls as he savors his little cub.

Sansa’s blood’s red as any petal and it beats faster in her veins as she tilts her lips up, feels his arms tighten, presses her soft body to his chest. Tywin snarls now, one hand tangled in her russet hair, pulling her, biting at her lip till she cries out, then covering it with a furious kiss, hers as burning as his.

Sansa tastes of sugar, blood and roses, intoxicating as Arbor Gold. Tywin’s been to the Water Gardens and nothing there compared to this, the afternoon, the candles, this ruby and ivory girl. 

In the light of the fire, they cling, her arms white vines around his crimson darkness, one white leg limned in gold where her dress has ridden up from squirming and kissing.  
They drink each other in, his growls, her sighs. Her nips, his snarls, a scruff of the neck to make her mind. Sansa does. Their skin is aflame as she shifts to wrap herself around her Great Lion, exactly as he likes, just as he’s taught her. Their breath is fire as they kiss and kiss, Sansa’s hips already moving in circles as Tywin grips at her hard, making her mind.

Good girls get treats.  
Lions have claws.  
Clever girl.

The box with its gilt stars lies to the side to await another day, another taste. 

The only sweet that Tywin Lannister cares for is already at his lips.


End file.
